


Poison & Wine

by DarkoftheMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Hermione Granger, Seven Minutes In Heaven Game, University Setting, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkoftheMoon/pseuds/DarkoftheMoon
Summary: Hermione thought that if she were to brew poison, she would make the taste irresistible — something that you had to keep drinking because it felt so good on your tongue and slithering down your throat. Satiating your thirst. Desperate for more.Under a full moon on Halloween night a game of seven minutes in heaven changes things for a certain witch and wizard.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 45
Kudos: 171





	Poison & Wine

A Gothic cathedral was as close to Hogwarts as one could get in America. With its stained glass windows, elegant stonework, and large oak doors, it was at least a decent replica of the Great Hall. Hermione had seen her share of cathedrals around the UK and in France, on trips with her parents in the summer. But the once grand church that sat on the edge of her small liberal arts college campus was mostly abandoned. She’d seen advertisements for the campus choral group’s performances. The occasional charity marketplace.

But now, with a full moon above it, the empty cathedral had been reclaimed for a Halloween party. The bare trees outside cast shadows on the ground beneath her feet. She hadn’t planned on celebrating Halloween. It was hard to find much magic in it here, without her friends or the massive pumpkins she was used to seeing when she was at school. But she’d received a strange invitation and cobbled together a costume hoping that there would be a few friendly faces from her classes. It was probably not worth trying to make friends in her last year here but she’d made a promise to herself that she would try it anyway. She didn’t want to admit to being lonely. Sending an owl across the Atlantic was painfully slow, and neither Harry nor Ron had any interest in Muggle forms of communication like email.

She could hear their well-meaning teasing. After two years and two months at a Muggle university, on an accelerated course of study, Hermione Granger had finally put her books down long enough to attend a party. Alert the authorities. Though she doubted there would be any at this party. Outside of those wearing cheap costumes, at least.

The invitation said that the party would begin once those who sought to toil and trouble arrived. Hermione took that to mean about ten, when most college parties began. Not that she’d actually been to any. With a final tug at her “I pulled all of this from my existing wardrobe” costume she joined the throngs of people making their way through the doors. She bumped into a particularly tall man dressed in all black, holding a pair of cat ears in his hand. When he caught her staring at them he sighed and put them on, as if to say, “Happy now?” before storming off into the crowd.

People mingled between the pews and in the aisles and against the stone walls. Where the altar once stood was a line of folding tables. In the corner, in front of the remains of the organ, was a DJ flanked by massive speakers. The sound echoed into the rafters. Laughter and conversation and music.

There was the usual muggle drinks — cases of cheap beer, a few kegs that various people struggled to pump, stacks of red solo cups. And there, at the center, was a massive cauldron. Had Hermione not been a witch it would have looked impressive. There was a smoke machine behind it, hidden by various empty bottles. And someone had fashioned lights to give it a spooky aura. It looked like a vat of amortentia. The liquid inside was a sickly magenta color, with some small bubbles from whoever stirred it last. But instead of smelling like peppermint and sandalwood and fresh cut grass and all of the other things she found attractive, it smelled of cheap alcohol and sugar. A disastrous combination. Especially in the hands of a bunch of early twenty-somethings.

As disastrous as the wizard who had saddled up to her at the makeshift bar. It had been a couple years since she’d seen him.

The platinum hair was a bit longer, and more artfully tousled than the once slick style he’d worn it in at school. To muggle eyes, he probably seemed to be dressed as some sort of rock star — pointed boots, fitting black trousers, a loose white shirt, unbuttoned to the navel. But the shoes were dragon hide, and the rest was just his usual attire presently slightly differently. Like he’d mussed himself up on the way there.

“Couldn’t be bothered to wear a costume?” She said, hoping for nonchalance and to avoid curious glances from anyone nearby.

He ladled some of the toxic-looking drink into a red plastic cup, filling it nearly to the brim. “When anyone asks, I just let them come to their own conclusions. Apparently I’m either someone called Jareth or a vampire—”

“What are you even doing here, Malfoy?” Hermione poured her own punch and cringed a little at the taste. Like every bottle of liquor at the university’s dive bar mixed with the syrupy flavor of fruit punch with no discernible fruits. Corn syrup and regret. And a wicked hangover.

“Same as you. Being a muggle for the evening and trying to enjoy the party,” he sniffed the punch and made a face. “Which will apparently be harder than I thought.” Then he waved a subtle hand over the solo cup, turning its contents into a dark wine and drinking deeply, closing his eyes.

“Malfoy you can’t _do_ that!” She hissed, following him to the edge the party. Too late she realized she left her cup on the table.

“I just did. Would you like some? It’s a particularly fine Bordeaux—”

“No before that, I meant what are you doing _here_ , in America. Specifically.”

“Could ask the same of you. Did you follow me?” He asked, sipping his magicked wine. The dark red left a slight stain on his lips even after he licked them clean.

“My university is here. I’m pursuing a degree in—”

“Swotiness? Do they hand those out for free in this country? How many do you have now?”

Hermione grumbled to herself then got louder. “You know what, sure. That’s my degree. It’s not as if I’m taking any classes of interest like Gilded Age literature in between my course load for a degree in social work, which will only serve to help me when I return to London and apply for jobs at the Ministry. Where I’ll actually make a difference in the wizarding world. All while you guzzle wine and look down your nose at everything in between whatever it is you’re even _doing_ here.”

“Ah, there she is. Knew you were still in there somewhere beneath whatever this outfit is,” he took another pointed sip of his wine and stretched his long neck to look at her. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and itched to pull at her dress, which felt too tight even though it was as flowy as robes. “I’m on assignment and it’s my night off. Dawlish is a right bore, wanted to go to the arboretum so good riddance. Probably fell asleep as soon as the sun set. Anyway. Found an invitation in a book I was reading in a shop—”

“What sort of assignment?”

“Confidential, obviously. Can’t go telling you about it in front of muggles. You really should know better than that.”

“Hold on, what do you mean you _found_ an invitation?” She thought of her own invite, addressed to her but tucked into her copy of _The Age of Innocence_. It had fallen out in the library three days ago when she went to find a quote for her term paper. Thick paper and perfect penmanship.

“Calm down. I’m not technically crashing. It had my name on it.”

A group of young people had crowded around them, loudly discussing various fraternity afterparties and who was late and who wouldn’t show up and why. She wondered if everyone present had received a strange invitation or if it was only a select few of them — those who wouldn’t have attended otherwise. Or maybe it was something else, something more sinister.

“You’d think a witch and wizard familiar with cursed journals would think twice with these kinds of things…I also found an invitation. It was in one of my books and had my name on it as well. That can’t be a coincidence,” she said. Then she had an idea. “Is this your assignment? Are you investigating something? Or someone here? Because you know I can help—”

Malfoy sighed and leaned back against the stone wall. “I told you the truth. It’s my night off. And if I’m being honest I don’t want to spend it getting into some ill-advised, Potteresque sleuthing with you. Unlike you Gryffindors I value my own life. Besides, I’m on probation with the Ministry and that would certainly fuck things over for me. I came here to sample the wares and—”

“Hey!” A girl in a hotdog costume greeted them, her eyes glassy with drink and her grin stretched across her skin.

“Hi,” Hermione managed, glancing at the small group that had formed a semicircle around them. “Uh— what’s up?”

“We’re playing a game and you two would be _perfect_ for it,” she said. A boy in a too-small superhero costume, polyester cape included, had materialized behind her.

“Seriously. You have to play,” he said, smiling as he rested his chin on the hotdog’s shoulder. “Come on, Stevie Nicks and David Bowie here together? It’s like the stars intervened.”

“We’re not—”

“Exactly! Read it in the tea leaves or whatever,” the hot dog added, cackling at her joke.

“I find it doubtful that either of you know how to read the stars,” Malfoy said pointedly. “It’s not exactly easy for—”

Hermione elbowed him to shut him up. “Sorry, what is it you’re playing? What game?”

The superhero grinned and said, “Come and find out.”

Then the two of them dragged her and Malfoy over to the larger group. Hermione struggled to remember anyone’s names. It was loud, and an Emma could have easily been an Anna. Chad could have been Brad. It wasn’t as if she really cared. She scanned through her memories to try to understand what was happening. There were a lot of muggle drinking games but most of the ones she remembered from films and novels involved a table and tossing a ball into a cup or flipping cups over. There was no empty bottle, so spin the bottle was out. Thank Merlin. She looked for a deck of cards but everyone’s hands seemed occupied with drinks.

One of the revelers was a girl she recognized from one of her courses last semester. She’d always countered Hermione’s arguments and scoffed at her thoughts on fairy tale allegory as a way to discuss philosophy. They were both tied for valedictorian. In short, this girl did not like her. And of course Hermione did not know her name.

The girl was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, complete with a stuffed wolf poking out of her apron pocket. In one hand she held a beer. In the other, a stopwatch. What game required a watch?

“Granger, if this is considered fun I really pity your current circumstances,” Malfoy whispered. The warmth of his breath tickled her curls against her cheek. Red watched them with a smirk.

“Time’s up!” She sang, and the superhero removed a wooden beam from the front of what had once been the confessional. It was a wooden structure, built against the wall of the cathedral in between the slender windows. Twin doors with twin carvings above them. Two pink-cheeked boys — some sort of pilot and an explorer — fell out, costumes slightly askew while the surrounding group cheered and shouted various innuendo.

“Your turn,” Red said to Hermione, who finally understood what game was afoot. Widening her eyes as Red narrowed hers.

“Oh, no, we’re fine we were just leaving actually and—”

Someone hooked their arm around her, jostling Draco’s wine. It left raindrops of blood red stains on her dress.

He turned his best sneer on the lumberjack costume who handled him. “This shirt is _silk_ , you oaf—”

With a shove they stumbled into the cramped space, shoulders knocking against the wooden walls. There was a loud thump followed by mirthful laughter. Malfoy immediately tried to open the door but it held firm.

He let out a groan of frustration. “How many of them would we have to obliviate do you think? I can teach you a variation that will work on up to five of them but it will only account for the last three minutes. That might be enough—”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione asked.

“How many memories we would need to alter if I were to blast this door off and get us the fuck out, obviously. Maybe they’ll believe that I just rammed it open with my shoulder…”

“Were you even paying attention?”

“No, I was too busy being forcibly thrown in here.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They barricaded the door. Which is absolutely a fire hazard. And we can’t break the statute of secrecy or MACUSA would never let us back in the country. I have finals in two weeks, don’t you dare mess that up for me. And you said yourself you’re on probation! A bunch of memory charms would surely arise suspicion.”

The confessional booth wasn’t designed for two people. It didn’t matter that they were on opposite ends — their legs were tangled together. There was a bench built into the wood, atop a single step of a riser. The other side of the confessional seemed to be used mainly for storage. Old hymnals were stacked from the floor to the ceiling, or at least that’s what they appeared to be from behind the privacy screen. The only light was the flashing party lights filtered through the crucifix carving above the door. It lit their skin with an eerie glow, shadowing their features.

Hermione transfigured one of her bracelets into a watch and frowned at it. How many minutes had passed? Likely only about thirty seconds. Time moved slowly when it needed to. “Seven minutes in heaven…bloody ridiculous. Childish, really.”

“Why have they locked us in a wardrobe?” Malfoy asked, stretching his legs out as far as they could go. One expensive shoe on either side of her lace-up boots. It wasn’t enough room; he still had to bend his knees to fit without standing straight up. He tipped his cup back and drained it. Leaving the empty on the seat.

“It’s not a wardrobe — it’s the confessional. You come in here when you’ve sinned.”

“Oh Merlin, does it force me to confess my _sins_? I don’t think I can do that in seven minutes—”

“Confessionals are a bit more involved than that,” Hermione said, biting back a loud sigh. “It’s not magic, there’s nothing to _make_ you do anything. It’s a way to talk about the things you feel guilty for in anonymity and then the priest on the other side of the wall will absolve you. It’s a way to get things off your chest.”

“And you have seven minutes to do this? That seems rather arbitrary.”

“You have as much time as you need, I think. I’ve only read about it, I wasn’t raised in the church,” Hermione said.

Malfoy grew more annoyed. “Well then what is the point of these seven minutes? In what delusion is this heaven? My leg is starting to cramp and we’ve nothing else to drink.”

“It’s just a stupid muggle party game.”

The thrum of music and laughter pulsed outside. The intoxicating sounds of intoxication, bolstered by the late hour and the tightness of the air in the tiny space. Hermione could feel her own heartbeat thudding in time with the bass. Breathing in the smell of alcohol and sweat in the air, mixed with peppermint and a faint cologne with notes of sandalwood. She tried to become one with the wall behind her. To keep their limbs from brushing.

“I don’t see the point in forcing two people into a small room. How is this fun? Especially for them out there? It’s not like they can bear witness to our misery.” Malfoy stretched his arms above his head, grazing the ceiling with the tips of his fingers. A sliver of pale flesh at the hem of his billowy shirt caught her eye. There in an instant and blown out like a candle.

“It’s the suspense,” she ventured a guess, tearing her eyes back upward. “Wondering if anything’s going to happen on the other side.”

“Granger, what can possibly happen other than running out of oxygen?”

“Well, usually it’s a way to force two people to be alone together.” In the teenage muggle books she’d read for fun in the dorms at Hogwarts, it was usually someone with their unrequited crush. Or two characters who didn’t particularly like each other, but for some reason that seemed to make her think they must have liked each other very much. In the books things would either get very embarrassing for one of them or the unrequited would become requited. Hermione tried to remember all of the different versions she’d read, and which one was most similar to her current predicament.

He could sense she wasn’t saying everything. Staring at her with those cold grey eyes that used to level on her from across the library. He raised a brow. “And?”

“And…well, you can imagine,” Hermione said, leaning further back against the wall. As if she could put any more space between them. She was starting to consider using a bit of magic to expand the size of the space but it was too risky. The magical visa she’d signed strictly forbid magic outside of travel and emergencies. Was this an emergency? Locked in a confessional with _Malfoy_ , of all people? Especially when he had the audacity to look like that. _Shit._

“One of them hexes the other? Transfigures them into a rat or a cockroach—”

“No, you idiot, it’s a _muggle_ tradition,” she said, instead of doing exactly what he suggested. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been turned into a rodent. Were ferrets rodents? She’d have to look it up.

“Then _what_? Why force a pair into close quarters?”

“To make them confront their feelings—”

“I thought their lot called that therapy?”

“You’re insufferable—”

“And you’re being intentionally vague, Granger, so why don't you just tell me what the bloody game is so we can—”

“They kiss! It’s— two people are put in a wardrobe and they’re supposed to kiss.” She looked at the floor. For a moment everything was quiet. Even the sounds outside of their confessional seemed dimmer.

“Really?” Malfoy asked. “With an audience on the other side of the door?”

“Yes, that’s part of what makes it, I don’t know, exciting. You’re in private but—”

“How many minutes do we have left?”

Hermione twisted her wrist to check her watch, careful to keep her arm close to her body. “Seeing as you’ve asked so many questions we’re probably halfway through but—What are you doing?”

Goosebumps formed beneath the trails of his fingers up her arm, ghosting across her shoulder and curling around her jaw to brush her hair from her face. She tried to take a step back, knocking her ankle on the wall. Then she turned, which brought her a step up, putting them closer to the same height. It might have been her first mistake.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his face close to hers. She could see the hints of blue in his irises. The reddish stain of wine on his lips. “We’re playing a game.”

Her next mistake was closing her eyes and letting him kiss her. It wasn’t something she’d expected, despite the nature of the game. And she certainly didn’t expect to like it. But he kissed her briefly, the barest hint of a touch before pulling away to look at her. Almost as if to ask if he could. Whatever was written on her face must have told him yes.

They traded gentle kisses, backs against opposite sides of the confessional, until she wound her hands around his neck to pull him closer. She could taste the wine on his tongue. Feel the heat from his hands.

Hermione thought that if she were to brew poison, she would make the taste irresistible — something that you had to keep drinking because it felt so good on your tongue and slithering down your throat. Satiating your thirst. Desperate for more. Something that felt like this kiss.

Perhaps someone had spiked the punch with a lust potion. Or maybe it was Draco’s drink. Or both. A combination of poison and wine, and the only antidote was his lips on hers. If she just kissed him harder she’d find the cure. Or succumb to it entirely.

“Did you mean it?” He said, moving his attention to her jaw. It made her lashes flutter.

“Mean what?”

“What you said at my trial.” The little spot just beneath her ear that always made her warm.

“Which—” She lost her breath when he sucked on her skin, leaving a mark. “Which part?”

She’d said a lot of things at his trial. Probably too many, if the bored faces of the Wizengamot were to be believed. But she’d wanted to present the full story, as she saw it. That no minor under duress should be held accountable for their actions, no matter how dangerous. After all, Harry was responsible for quite a lot of damage over the years. And so was she. And besides, it wasn’t as if Malfoy had actually done any of the crimes that the other Death Eaters were accused of — unforgivable curses, murder. The most he’d done was follow orders to stay alive, while being tortured mentally and physically.

“That you forgive me,” he asked, drawing back to look at her. Cradling her face in his hands. Brushing his thumbs over her cheeks like waves at low tide, unhurried as they ebb and flow.

Perhaps there was some magic sealed within the dark mahogany of the walls. Or written into the stone of the floor beneath them. _Come, little sinners_ , it said. _It’s time to confess and be absolved._ Coaxing them to share.

Hermione looked into his eyes, like the storm cloud surface of a pensieve, swirling her back to the past. To cackled insults in potions and a right hook in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. To a scared boy looking for refuge after a dark battle. A broken young man awaiting sentencing.

In the courtroom she’d fought for a reform plan. Probation and counseling. Something they all needed to process the trauma of their time at Hogwarts. When the chief warlock had asked her why, the answer was simple. Because he deserved a second chance and forgiveness. _And do you, Miss Granger?_ They’d asked. _Do you forgive him?_

“Yes,” she said. “I forgive you.” The last time she said it they had been on opposite sides of the (frankly ridiculous) cage of the accused. It was easier not to look at him then, pale and frail behind the spiked bars. Now his nose grazed hers and he leaned forward, resting his forehead on her own. Waiting. Barely breathing. This time she kissed him first.

It was like the first time one of her stunners hit its mark. Not for practice in a classroom, with a mannequin. But that bolt of adrenaline from stopping an enemy in their tracks. The feel of his lithe body against hers had the same sizzle of excitement as getting full marks on an essay. Only with this, she could feel it reflected back at her. In the way he used his mouth to pull her closer, sinking his teeth into her lower lip before releasing it with a near silent groan. How his hands drifted lower, gathering her skirt above her knees so that he could skim her thigh. Touching skin to skin. Nearing closer to where everything in her blood called out for more. She wanted him to touch her as badly as she wanted to touch him. Her own hands migrated to the open buttons of his shirt, pressing flat against his chest and the pounding of his own heartbeat. It felt like a song beneath her fingers. One that she’d always wondered what the words meant.

If she could kiss him just a little longer she might learn them. Might be able to sing them herself. Amid the taste of him. The poison and wine.

A loud bang on the door shocked their lips apart, though they remained clutched in each other’s arms. Their hands on thighs and chests and tangled in each other’s hair. They locked eyes for a fragment of a second before the door opened, and they were presented to their audience. Hermione’s once subtle lipstick was smeared across Draco’s face, and he rubbed a lazy hand over it to try to get rid of it. They were both bleary eyed, facing the people who put them in there in the first place. Those people were smug and wolf whistling. Little Red looked positively delighted. Their friends the superhero and the hotdog started to say something but Draco interrupted them.

“Fuck off,” he proclaimed loudly, then grabbed her hand and dragged her through the cathedral. Skirting the pews and dodging anyone in their path.

“Where are we—what are we—what?” Thoughts were a jumble, bouncing from side to side like the costumed people dancing around them. If he replied to her nonsensical questions she couldn’t hear him over the music. A spooky remix of a popular muggle song she'd heard on the radio.

They burst through the lingering partiers outside the main doors, rushing down the stairs and past a few small groups smoking and enjoying the night air. It was colder now, and the moon was high and full and beautiful. She gazed at it for a moment and remembered what they’d been talking about seven or maybe now it was eight minutes before.

“Draco, what about the invitation—”

He kissed her again, and her knees nearly gave out she was so dizzy from it. The ground beneath her feet held firm as his hand at the small of her back.

“Talk later, shall we? It’s still my night off,” he said against her lips, reaching for her hand. Pulling her along through the cemetery, further from the party guests, until he could press her against the rough bark of a willow tree. Slotting a knee between her legs to rub against her just so.

A lot of people would say that she’s logical. That Hermione Granger studies hard and comes up with the best solution for a problem before approaching it. Reads every piece of instruction three times and all the supplementary texts. Always armed with the correct answer, researched and considered. But those people didn’t know the importance of impulse. Of seeing a professor muttering, without blinking, and running to set his robes on fire to save your jinxed friend from falling off his broom. Or punching a bully because he deserved it for so many things. Of petrifying your friend, just to get out of the dormitory without endangering them further. Of the countless instances of quick spellwork she’d pulled over the last ten years. Some of it less than savory. Sure, she was logical. But she was impulsive, too. And sometimes that impulsiveness proved more logical than anything else.

She breathed, deep inhales of cool air that had her chest rising and falling when they released each other. Maybe she didn’t always have to be the hero. Maybe she could follow the other half of her gut. The impulsive half. Before she could lose her nerve she said, “Or we can not talk.”

The arm around her waist tightened. “Take us home then, Granger. Be quick about it.”

Hermione apparated them away, leaving behind a puff of smoke and the echoing crackle of magic in the moonlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I had a lot of fun with this one and owe my love and gratitude to the brilliant [Inky_Pens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky_Pens) — for the prompt, for the enthusiasm, for just about everything. Check out her work, she's insanely talented.
> 
> If you're looking for more Dramione... 
> 
> 🎶 [Notes of Melancholy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409507/chapters/66993583) is an E-rated Dramione fic about grief and the healing power of piano. Post-war, Hermione POV.
> 
> 🌛 A divination, tea leaves, astrology-themed one shot with alternating present day Hermione and flashback Draco POVs. [The Moon in Gemini](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478921).
> 
> 🗝[Tremble & Depart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903571/chapters/68329363) is an E-rated WIP (updated weekly!) about a mysterious manor house, with secrets in its walls and mutual pining from its protagonists.
> 
> ✨ [Death-marked Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546116/chapters/64710325) is a Reylo-Dramione crossover fic about an ancestral curse. A dual POV of Rey and Hermione, rated E. 
> 
> Say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xDarkoftheMoon) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/xdarkofthemoon), if you like 🌙✨ xx Lu


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